


New Trends

by mouriana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7356418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouriana/pseuds/mouriana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little follow up scene to Something New.  blah blah blah romance blah blah blah</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Trends

Mrs Hudson opened the door after the second ring of the bell. A young woman stood there, her shoulders tight, both hands clenched around a handbag, and eyebrows pulled together as if by an invisible string.

“Oh, hello dear. I really should get you a key.”

The young lady managed a brief smile. “I’m sorry to be such a bother, Mrs Hudson. He said it was urgent.”

“He usually says something like that, doesn’t he.”

“Yes. Half the time it isn’t, and the other half he has a knife to his throat. One of these days I will stop giving him the benefit of the doubt.”

Mrs Hudson smiled and stood back, admitting Emma Bedingfield to 221B. “I really should get you a key.”

Emma came in and glanced upstairs, her brows still pulled together. “You wouldn’t need to if he learnt to open the door himself.”

Mrs Hudson laughed. “Do you need me to show you up, dear?”

Emma blinked, shook her head, and smiled at the landlady. “No, of course not, Mrs Hudson. You rest your hip. I imagine he’s expecting me, since he _did_ call.” She sighed and walked up the stairs.

She knocked on the door, but when the door opened, she rolled her head back on her neck and groaned.

“Stop telling me it’s urgent when you’re bored!”

Sherlock, standing at the door in his standard slacks, button up shirt and jacket, didn’t change his facial expression a bit. “It _is_ urgent.”

“It isn’t! You being bored is not urgent. It isn’t. It just makes you petulant and lazy, and I won’t be called over to fetch your pen or your phone.”

He turned around and walked back into the flat, leaving the door open. “You always come over.”

She followed him in and shut the door behind her. “But I never fetch your things for you.”

He paused, then turned half back to her. “That’s true. Why not?”

“Because I refuse to feed your ego—or your ennui-induced lethargy—in such a way.”

He grunted, his left eyebrow rising momentarily, and flopped into his chair, almost immediately sliding into the position of a surly teenager.

“Then why do you come?”

A grimace and a quiet response. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.” She sighed again, and sat in the chair opposite him, her posture as erect as his was slack. “It really was urgent twice, and unfortunately you’ve learnt the value of variable reinforcement conditioning, while I have yet to learn the wisdom of the villagers in the Boy Who Cried Wolf.”

She rolled her shoulders as she looked about the room. “Been bored for at least four days, I see. No interesting cases?”

His expression didn’t change, he just stared straight ahead. “Not even a five.”

She placed her handbag on her lap, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “I won’t play Cluedo with you again.”

His brows dug down and he looked up at her without moving his head. “Now you too?”

“You get inordinately angry over facts not in evidence.”

“That game _never_ has enough facts in evidence.”

“I concede that point, but if you are going to make up your own evidence, you must share it with the other players.”

“Why?” He was back to staring straight ahead with a blank expression.

“Because it is not fair to the other players when you don’t.”

“Murders are never fair.”

“That isn’t a real murder, it’s a game.”

He grunted again.

It was silent for a few moments more. Then a few more after that. After two hundred and twenty seconds, he spoke again.

“You’re being very stubborn.”

“Pot, kettle. I refuse to be a carnival fortuneteller, where you simply push a button and I present a card of suggestions for your amusement.”

“Then why _do_ you come?”

“We’ve been over this.”

He grunted again. “The criminal classes have been exceedingly disappointing of late.”

“Indeed.”

Another pause, then his gaze returned to her with beetled brows.

“Why are you staying if you aren’t going to be interesting?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I’m waiting to see what ideas you come up with.”

He sat up. “Ah, so you _are_ bored!”

She pursed her lips. “I’ll have you know, I was perfectly set to be reading all day. I had three new books all lined up.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Go on, then. Read.”

Her head raised a little higher on her neck. “I didn’t bring any of them with me.”

A tiny smile lifted half his mouth. “You expected some sort of amusement when you answered my call.”

Her brow dropped, narrowing her field of vision. “I merely assumed that a four hundred page hardback would be cumbersome to bring along on a murder investigation.”

“With the statistics of my past requests, you only had a ten percent chance of there being an investigation.”

Her face scrunched and she rubbed her palm over half her forehead and her right eye. “This must be why John so rarely comes by anymore.”

Sherlock’s eyes and mouth drooped, ever so slightly.

Blinking, her upper body visibly relaxing, Emma sighed again. “I’m sorry, that was unkind of me. Someday, you really must learn to find yourself amusement in something other than crime, you know. But as you have trapped me again, let’s play a game.”

He immediately sat up in his chair and crossed his legs, as though preparing for a case. “Murder?”

Her right eyebrow twitched. “No. Interrogation and Deduction. You enjoy murder far too much; it’s become positively mundane.”

His mouth dropped open, but before he could say anything, she said, “This is what happens when you insist that others concoct your amusements. I get to name the game, I get to start, and you must play because you dragged me all the way over here for your amusement.”

His frown grew deeper, but he did not slump back in his seat.

“If the criminal classes decide to commit something diabolical to appease your boredom in the next hour, I shall grant you a reprieve. Otherwise, you are mine.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted. “I’ve nothing new about the flat to play deductions with.”

“Your attempt to divert me will not work. These are deductions based off of interrogation. It is about sharing information, not competition.”

His head turned slightly to the right and his left eyebrow rose again. “Adding a psychological component could possibly be an interesting variation.”

“Possibly.” She sat back and peered at him with narrowed eyes for over a minute.

He raised his eyebrow and put his fingertips together in front of his chest. “I would have presumed you to have questions prepared.”

“I do.”

“Do you expect me to deduce them? If so, I entirely misunderstood the ‘deduction’ portion of this game.”

Her eyes narrowed even more. “No. I’m calculating the best way to ask them.”

“I have found that putting a rising pitch at the end of the sentence usually conveys your intentions best. Of course, to do that you will have to speak a full sentence.”

“Aren’t we droll this morning. I’m calculating how to ask them without being irksome.”

“You’re not off to a good start.”

She leaned forward in her chair again. “You prefer me to be direct? I suppose I should have started with that straight away, since tact has never seemed to be of much value to you. Irene Adler.”

“You’ve already forgotten the rising pitch.”

“I heard you were calling her ‘The Woman’ there at the end. That’s a title of some significance. Everyone seems to have a differing opinion of that case and its affect on you— _her_ affect on you—but I would rather get the information from you.”

“ _After_ gleaning everything you could from everyone else, apparently.”

She squirmed in the chair. “Yes. I apologise. I had heard a few things that piqued my interest and I started asking questions. Most people seem to think she’s dead, so they had no problem being forthcoming.”

“And you don’t? Believe that she’s dead, that is.”

“Now I _know_ she’s not. Which brings up the additional question of why you would try to protect her by maintaining the illusion that she was dead.”

“I’m sorry, what was the original question?”

“I’m just curious about that…relationship. What it meant, what it means. To you. It doesn’t seem to fit your normal…reaction…to people.”

He was dead still, his fingers still steepled in front of him, his gaze on her constant and unblinking.

Her return gaze was as stoically stubborn, but after a full minute, her right index finger began to curl and uncurl.

Another minute in, she sat back in her chair again, then cocked her head slightly to the left. “I’m beginning to think you have no more understanding than anyone else.”

His eyebrow arched again and he looked away.

“Forgive me, Sherlock. I…I’m just trying to understand. I like to observe from behind my walls. From a distance, sometimes I think I can read people tolerably well. But I don’t understand things well at all when I am on the inside. And I…I’m afraid of being blindsided, or misreading, or hurting anyone.”

He shrugged one shoulder; his gaze remained fixed on the mantelpiece.

She looked down, bit her lip, and in a meeker tone asked, “Molly?”

He half shrugged again, still not returning his eyes to her. But after a moment, he answered. “Important. Has helped me. I trust her.”

She blinked and her eyebrows tilted.

“John has helped you, hasn’t he. Learn to care again.”

Some of the hardness returned to his tone. “What do you mean, ‘again?’”

“You cared when you were very young. About at least one thing. Mycroft destroyed it, I would guess. Saw it as a weakness, or a vulnerability. Or simply as something that brought you a joy that he could never have. John hasn’t just tried to train you in social niceties. He’s taught you that people could care for you, and reminded you that you could care, too. But your skills are weak from disuse, and your experiences with the cruelty of others make you scared. Not to mention Mycroft’s voice still tells you it is a weakness and a distraction.”

There was another moment of silence as Sherlock’s eyes dropped their focus to the fireplace. “When did you meet my brother?”

“He came by my flat. Uninvited. Very rude. Proceeded to lecture me on various aspects of my life. He’s not nearly as clever as he thinks he is.”

The half smile returned to Sherlock’s face and his eyes rose to the mirror above the mantel. “Not in all subjects, no.”

Another pause, then Emma gripped her handbag with both hands again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry people have been so cruel to you. I—” She fidgeted in her chair uncomfortably, looking away, squinching up her face, then turning back to him. “I lied a little. I said I wanted to know because I wanted to be prepared. But it’s not just that. I…I wanted to know for me. It’s not just the fear of hurting someone else. It’s the fear of being hurt myself. I’m afraid I’m rather ordinary in that aspect.”

His eyes finally returned to meet hers. “You’re really not ordinary.”

She smiled, though it was small, and her eyes seemed sad. “Thank you.” Her voice was very soft. “It doesn’t really matter, I suppose, how you feel about anyone else. Even John, if that’s your preference. But I will always be here. Always.” A laugh that was more of a burst of air came from her. “Not even death can tear me away.”

Her eyebrows buckled and she stared at the rug beneath their feet for a moment, then stood and turned towards the door. But before taking a step forward, she paused and said, “If it helps, from what I have seen, it is a struggle for everyone. Relationships. Of any kind. It seems the more valuable the relationship, the greater the struggle. But people keep doing it anyway. They must find something worthwhile in it.”

She stepped towards the door, then a quiet voice came from across the room, stopping her.

“Teach me.”

Her entire body turned back to face him. Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on her, his head tilted slightly downward, his eyebrows raised.

“What?”

He stood. “You are right.”

“About what?”

“About me. You are always right. Since John married, it has been so empty. The cases are no longer enough. The drugs are no longer enough. Teach me what is worthwhile.”

“But I am so awkward and bumbling! How could I—”

“You are enough.”

Her eyebrows lifted and puckered slightly, her mouth dropped open and the grip on her handbag loosened. Sherlock’s body leaned forward as if to approach her, then fell back. But another moment later, he walked forward with firm steps, took her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. Her handbag fell to the floor and she returned the kiss, lifting her hand to his neck. Then she pulled away, her eyes wide and unable to withdraw from his.

“I…I….”

She moved forward again, grasping his face as he had grasped hers, and kissed him on the mouth, at first hard, then simply again and again and again with a gentler fervour, he returning every kiss. Then she pulled away again.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

His eyebrows rippled. “Then what are you doing?”

She smiled an embarrassed smile. “No, I mean…you make me feel alive. Like, I had this…filter over me, that dulled taste, dimmed light, muted colours, muffled sound—and now it’s gone, and the entire world is amazing. And I don’t know how to respond to that. I don’t know how to give you back the smallest part of what you’ve given me.”

With hands at her sides, he lifted her up and set her on the coffee table, bringing her face closer to his own.

“Is that what it is? I thought I saw everything there was. But now there is a new light illuminating everything. Not just the world, but corners of my mind I never thought were real.”

She took a large, satisfied breath and exhaled it in a rush. There was a silent pause, then she asked, “Now what do we do?”

“You’re the one who’s been in actual relationships. You were even married, so I’ve been told.”

Her voice grew deeper and the smile dropped away. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just refer to my arranged marriage to someone who later murdered me as an ‘actual relationship.’”

“What about the other one?”

Her face twisted as she considered it. “I’m not sure how much a century old engagement to a man who was rarely out of hospital would apply today. I told you I was rubbish at this.” She sighed a melodramatic sigh. “We may have to resort to consulting an expert.”

“You mean—”

“Yes. I’m sure Mycroft would be overflowing with sage counsel on the subject.”

There was a only a brief moment where they tried to maintain serious expressions, before both of them snorted and erupted with uncontrollable giggles until tears were streaming from their eyes. Sherlock tried repeatedly to say something in response, but he couldn’t get a single word out before he burst into gales of laughter again, bent forward and wiping tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. Emma’s laughing didn’t last nearly as long before it was replaced simply with a beam of pride.

As Sherlock continued to strain to stop laughing, she eventually stepped down from the table, paused, then made her way to the couch and sat down. It was still another few seconds before Sherlock was able to walk over and sit next to her, his face red and his eyes glistening.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Pity John wasn’t here to hear that. I’m afraid it will lose half its lustre in the retelling.”

“I don’t think such a statement could ever lose its lustre, no matter how many times it were retold.”

“We _could_ ask John, though. He seems to be more adept at such things.”

Calm was settling in again, and Sherlock tilted his head over hers, his eyes drooping ever so slightly as he inhaled the scent of her shampoo. Then his phone buzzed Lestrade’s signal. He pulled it out and looked at it.

“Triple homicide in Stratford.”

She twisted her head to see the phone screen he turned to her. “Clothing and personal items removed, hands cut off, faces mangled and teeth pulled. Hm.”

He turned the phone back to his own view as he scrolled down the screen with his thumb. He shrugged, but only lightly so her head, still on his shoulder, wouldn’t be overly jostled. “Ohhhh!” His exclamation rose and fell in a seductive lilt as he turned the screen so the image would be better visible to her again, and this time once she caught a glimpse, she turned her whole body with more interest to the phone and released a tiny gasp.

“Is that—?”

“I believe it is.”

“I’ve never seen one of those in real life! Could we please—?”

He texted a quick positive response to Lestrade, turned off the screen and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. He squinted. “Would this be considered a date?” He arose from the couch and helped her up.

“I can’t imagine anything else that might be more appropriate. Though we must stop for a bite. I’m starving.”

He grabbed his coat. “Dinner and a murder? That sounds like a marvellous new trend.”

“It really is amazing that no one has snatched you up yet.”

He picked her up, kissed her on the mouth, and set her back down. “Yes, you are very fortunate indeed.” He held the door open while she took the lead out, laughing all the way down the stairs.


End file.
